


The Patrick Jane Affair

by nitro9



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, Drama, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Romance, art heist, the Thomas Crown Affair
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:22:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29585793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nitro9/pseuds/nitro9
Summary: Numb and bored, billionaire Patrick Jane finds the ultimate thrill as an art thief. Agent Teresa Lisbon learned how devious he could be when he interfered in a case years before — this time she’s determined to lock him up for good. But as the investigation draws them closer, she must question everything she knows about love, trust, and the law. AU, based on The Thomas Crown Affair.
Relationships: Patrick Jane/Teresa Lisbon, Teresa Lisbon/Marcus Pike
Comments: 20
Kudos: 25





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I had this crazy idea while writing Silver Quarantine. In that story I have them watch a movie, and this, (Thomas Crown Affair (1999)), was the one I had in mind. The art thief is the hero here, so the thought of Jane showing this particular movie to Pike really made me laugh. And then I realized it would be a pretty great AU. So here it is! I hope you enjoy it! I’m still writing, but should be able to post 1-2 chapters a week. And since this is about visual art, I have a twitter thread with some inspirations I found. @nitro9_ 
> 
> Turns out writing fanfic and talking about The Mentalist is my happy place during these crazy times. I'm thankful for each and every one of you who are reading and creating and keeping this fandom alive! Shout out to my friends on discord!
> 
> Some dialog and situations have been taken from The Mentalist and The Thomas Crown Affair (both the original and remake). I do not own either one. Since this is AU, don’t be surprised to see characters in new and unusual places. :o)

After all this time, he still didn't know how to not be a showman. With eyes on him, he slipped into that different version of himself. That self who didn't have any cares or concerns, apart from his sway on the audience. He knew how to perform.

"The human brain is built in layers— The homo sapien brain on top of the caveman on top of the animal. Way down, deep below, you will find the lizard brain. Lizard— all action and reaction, no subtlety. You cannot train it to not react." Patrick Jane stood facing a woman, their arms extended. He held her wrists loosely at shoulder level.

The crowd around them tittered and whispered to each other. There was something about the term lizard brain that always had this effect.

The woman in his grasp wore bright red lipstick and a sultry pout. Her dress left little to the imagination. His own smile was carefully detached, friendly. He studied her gaze and rotated her wrist, feeling the resistance against his pull. He led her backwards, then sideways, pausing as a cluster of people moved out of the way.

They were on a large patio. Behind them three wide glass doors opened into what could only be called a mansion. Elegant stone archways and carefully manicured grounds. Party-goers were clustered everywhere, watching the entertainment.

The strange dance continued as he mesmerized them with his voice. "You're telling me, right now, where the ring is. All the lizard brain knows is that something is hidden and you don't want it found. You can't hide your reaction." Another small group displaced, he didn't look away.

"Don't break his concentration," a man stated dramatically, startling some of the crowd out of his lull. The people around him laughed.

"Stay with me, I'm right here," Jane told his volunteer, the same smooth tone. "I hear you loud and clear. We're getting close." The woman he was guiding looked back at him and quirked into a smile. He paused and rotated her wrists again, stepped closer to the disruptive man. Her eyes flicked away. The man jumped away from them, went around to the other side.

"Am I out of your way now, Patrick?" he teased.

Jane released the woman's wrists and turned to him. "Would you stop hiding the ring in your pocket, Walter?"

"He complains when it's in my pocket, he complains when it's in someone's delightful décolletage," Walter Mashburn tilted his head and smiled innocently at the closest woman as the party guests laughed.

Patrick held out his hand and waited. Walter made a show of reluctantly pulling the ring from his inside suit pocket. He placed it delicately on Patrick's hand and claimed some of the bows as the audience clapped.

Patrick waved and thanked his volunteer, releasing her back to the party. He placed his wedding band firmly back on his finger.

A band started playing, horns accenting a loose jazz number.

"The night is young! Dance, mingle, yada yada." Walter waved widely and the guests dispersed into the space. He was pulled into a circle of partiers.

Patrick felt the shift as the attention faded and he became one of the crowd. He flexed his fingers and sidestepped away, over to the bar. He leaned in to be heard over the big band. "Your best whiskey, neat."

The bartender nodded in acknowledgment and Patrick turned to survey the grounds while he waited. Most of the party mingled on the patio and into the house, a smattering of folks walked the grounds. Space cleared for a dance floor in front of the band.

The bartender got his attention and he turned slightly to take his drink. Walter made a beeline towards him.

"That never gets old," he pointed with one finger extended from his glass and smiled wide.

"You used to call it a simple parlor trick."

"Did I?"

"You could put it anywhere," he stated, then emphasized, " _Anywhere_."

"I'm not the one who hid it." Walter winked at him. "One of these days I might not give it back."

Patrick shook his head before taking a long sip. The twinkle lights around the bar highlighted his golden curls as he tipped his head back. When he lowered his glass, Walter was shockingly close, his back to the bar and his arms spread out along it.

"I love our parties," he said happily.

"Thanks for hosting last minute. I have some very big acquisitions on the line this week."

"Yeah, yeah," Walter waved a hand at him, shushing him. He bent down and fluttered a wave towards the group of ladies he had walked away from, his eyes crinkling in amusement. He bumped against Patrick as he leaned into him. "I think she's the one," he whispered loudly.

Patrick set his nearly empty glass on the bar top and smoothed his vest. "What's different about her?"

"Different? They are each special, each and every one. Women are marvels, Patrick. You should dance."

"We'll see."

Walter turned to address him straight on. "I know, Patrick. I understand, I do. It's been… five years?"

He blinked hard. "Five, then five again."

"You still like women, don't you?"

Patrick hung his head briefly. This always came up when Walter had been drinking. "Yes. I like women just fine."

Walter pointed vaguely towards the group, turned to focus on his friend. His voice pitched high as he mocked, "'L.A.'s most eligible bachelor, billionaire pretty boy Patrick Jane.'"

"Jealous?" he chided, straightening his shirt cuffs.

"Damn straight. I help build you up, and you get the title. I'm more eligible than you," he pouted. "You gotta loosen up, change your standards. Lose the trust issues, or whatever this is."

"Trust?"

"I mean, sure they like money. Who doesn't? You got enough to share!"

"It's more complicated than that."

"Doesn't have to be."

Patrick absentmindedly found his wedding band, spun it on his finger. "A tricky thing, trust. Has to go both ways."

"Hold on, you saying women can't trust you?"

He lost focus, staring into the crowd. His voice came out hollow and distant. "I'm not sure I trust myself."

Walter laughed, bringing him back to himself. He smiled weakly in response. "That's enough thinking. Come dance." Two women were approaching them. One ran a slow hand along Walter's arm, pulling him into her, moving them towards the dance floor. He reached out to Patrick as he went, an invitation.

Patrick held himself back, picked up his drink. "I'll follow you in a minute," he promised lightly, appeasing his friend who immediately turned away and left him behind.

The other woman approached slowly. Her heels brought her to an equal height with him, she stood straight and confident, her mouth a subtle shade of red to match her dress. She stopped within his reach, but not too close. "He'll never understand, will he?" She had a slight accent. German.

He finished his drink, taking time to study her. "You think you do?"

"Walter says you have," she stopped to find the words, "'a tortured past.'"

"Walter says a lot of things."

"You need to shake things up, try something new."

He dipped his head at her boldness, suppressing a smile. "You're not wrong."

"Dance with me."

He hesitated.

"It will get Walter off your back."

He set down his glass and offered his arm. Time to perform again. "Then let's dance."

X

A pint of beer thumped on the table in front of her, spilling slightly. Teresa Lisbon nodded at the server and pulled the drink closer. Next to her Grace Van Pelt was already half way through her drink. She set it down and sighed. "That's good."

Grace's husband, Wayne Rigsby, looked like he wanted to comment, but held back. Lisbon smiled. "It's been awhile, huh?"

"I don't usually miss it. But Maddy's been teething lately, she's attached to me all day long. It feels really good to be out, and not for work."

They grinned at each other.

"How _is_ the work?" Kimball Cho asked from her other side. He was sticking with water.

"Picking up," answered Rigsby. "We've been getting some good referrals. Between that and the kids, we're staying busy."

"Very busy."

Lisbon watched Grace wrinkle her nose and lean into her husband. They had no free time, but they were thriving. The job, their marriage, and a family. She tamped down the jealousy and drank one swallow of beer.

"Hey, boss. You making it down to L.A. anytime soon?"

She set the drink down and smiled before she turned to him. Cho saw everything, that's why he was her second. She wasn't going to call him out on it.

"Taking a half day on Friday," she announced.

"Oh, that's great!" Van Pelt exclaimed. "You and Marcus have big plans?"

"He's taking me somewhere straight from the airport. That's all I know."

"Aw, that's so sweet!" she leaned forward, then hissed. "Do you think he'll propose?"

Lisbon's smile froze into a grimace. "No?" She cringed at her squeaky voice.

"Grace, baby, you gotta try this salsa." Rigsby pulled her gently back by the shoulders, and put a chip in front of her. "She can't hold her liquor anymore," he mouthed.

Lisbon hid a laugh behind her hand and took another small sip. She turned back to Cho.

"How about you, Kimball? Dating anyone lately?"

"No," he deadpanned.

"Oh, come on," Wayne said. "What about —"

"Not going there," Cho stated.

"You started it," Lisbon reminded him.

"Yeah, I asked about L.A., not about your sex life."

Grace pointed a chip at him. "Asking boss about L.A. when her boyfriend lives there is not _not_ asking about her sex life, Kimball."

Lisbon snorted, beer spraying on the table. All three of her friends were quick to offer napkins, Van Pelt mopped up the worst of it.

"Sorry, boss," Cho offered. She wasn't sure if he was talking about the way the conversation had gone, or the mess that had resulted.

She took another clean napkin from a stack and wiped her hands and mouth. "It's all right," she acknowledged.

They all sat awkwardly for a moment. Van Pelt smiled at them all, then nudged her husband as she spoke. "Well this is nice… being all together. This place hasn't changed a bit."

"We still miss you guys at the office," Lisbon exclaimed.

"We miss you, too," Rigsby said. "Sometimes I miss the job."

"I do _not_ miss the dead bodies," Van Pelt blew some hair out of her face. "I have to deal with enough bodily fluids at home."

Rigsby held another chip in front of her and she eyed it suspiciously. "The new guys working out all right?" he asked.

"It's been three years," Cho stated.

"Okay, the not-so-new-guys," Rigsby amended.

"It's fine," Lisbon jumped in. "We're closing cases. We get along."

"Not the same," Cho added.

"I know, buddy," Rigsby said. They tapped their glasses and drank together.

"You're not going to make me ask to see pictures, are you," Lisbon demanded. "Your kids must be getting so big!" Both parents scrambled for their phones. Van Pelt got her screen in front of Lisbon and Rigsby settled for Cho.

The stoic agent mumbled, "Cute," with barely a glance, taking another sip of his drink. Rigsby put his phone away.

After a few minutes of smiling and nodding, Lisbon was done too. She was glad when the server reappeared with their food.

Conversation lulled again. Van Pelt bumped her shoulder into Rigsby with a goofy smile on her face. Rigsby swallowed and cleared his throat. "Right, I'll go first."

"First for what?" Lisbon questioned. Van Pelt was suddenly serious.

He fidgeted with his fork. "Five years ago," he started, then paused.

Lisbon went cold.

"Five years ago we laid to rest the worst serial killer case California has ever seen. It changed us, put us through hell. But we're still here, stronger than ever."

"We had each other's backs," Cho added.

"It helped me appreciate the little things — the everyday stuff of life," Van Pelt piped up. "When we took out Red John —"

"No," said Lisbon. Her hands were splayed on the table, she couldn't meet their eyes.

"Boss?"

Her eyes cut to Van Pelt's, anger simmering behind them. "It's just another damn day. I came to see my friends. There have been dozens of cases since then."

"It was a big deal," Rigsby said softly.

"Every case is a big deal," Lisbon reprimanded him.

"Not every case takes four years," Cho said.

"And we weren't the first ones to get it."

"It touched all of us, changed us."

"It brought us together."

"We were sloppy and we got lucky." She sucked in a staggering breath. "I'm thankful for you all, every day. That you picked up the pieces, stuck it out, kept going. I couldn't have asked for a better team."

"You're acting like we did something wrong," Van Pelt stepped in.

"Serial killers make for messy cases," Cho added.

"He killed over twenty people and we stopped him. I could wish a million things different, but I can't hold onto regrets. You have nothing to regret," said Rigsby.

Cho's phone rang and he pushed his chair away from the table to answer it.

"I was the special agent in charge," Lisbon managed to keep her voice low, but there was anger simmering there. "Everything fell to me. We should have solved it sooner."

"There were events out of our control."

"You're not still mad at Patrick Ja —"

"No." It wasn't an answer, it was an avoidance.

In the sudden silence, Cho spoke into his phone. "We're not on call, is there anyone else —"

"Is that a case?" Lisbon snapped.

"Yeah."

"Text me the address. I'll go." She slid her chair back and stood up.

"Boss."

"Teresa."

She pinched the bridge of her nose. "You know I don't like to talk about it."

"Then we'll stop."

"You planned for this. 'Five years ago', my ass."

"You've been drinking."

"Barely. I'm fine." She pushed aside her mostly full glass. "It's the job. I'll do the job."

"It's good to talk about it, have you ever —"

"Don't." Her phone pinged with a text. She glanced at it. "Thanks, Cho."

"I could come with you."

"No," she sighed. "You should stay. I'll call Fischer if I have to."

"Hey. We good?"

She bit back on her teeth, closed her eyes, made herself relax. When she opened them again, her anger had faded. These were her friends, the good guys. "Every case is a big deal," she repeated. "We'll do this again sometime soon. Without the…" she dismissed the heated topic with a hand wave.

"Yeah. We'd like that," answered Van Pelt, a little subdued.

She knocked on the table in front of Cho. "Don't stay out too late. I might need you tomorrow."

"Yes, boss," Rigsby answered. Cho looked at him. "What?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The paintings referenced in this chapter are: "View of the Canal Saint-Martin" by Alfred Sisley and "Impression, Sunrise" by Claude Monet.

Patrick's car shifted forward another couple feet in traffic. He stared out the window and tapped his newspaper against his leg. He made the tabloids again. He certainly didn't mind the attention. The speculation however… Why did anyone care about his love life?

They were getting close to the office. The week was going well, but today was the one that mattered. He felt the anticipation as a restlessness in his toes, spreading upwards. He needed to move. "Ron, I'm going to get out here, walk the rest of the way."

"Of course, sir," his driver responded. "You want me to take your briefcase to the office?"

"No, thank you."

"Very good, sir. I trust you have your tea?"

Patrick grinned. "I always have my tea."

"Have a good day, sir."

As he stepped out, a delivery truck slammed on it's brakes in the next lane. Jane paused, held up a hand in apology. The driver cursed loudly in response. Jane hurried across the lanes of traffic to the sidewalk. His brown soft-sided leather briefcase swung from his fingers, an insulated thermos tucked into a sleeve on the side.

The museum was designed to impress. Stone columns rose across the front. Wide banners advertised a new exhibit opening later in the day. The Violets collection was coming. The front steps were already bustling with activity.

A homeless man sat twenty yards from the main entrance, a sign asking for cash. His clothes were clean, but wrinkled. His long hair stuck out from beneath a baseball cap. Jane altered his course and pressed some folded dollars into the man's cup.

"Thank you." The man said simply. Jane tapped him twice on the knee, winked at him and continued on.

"Good morning, Mr. Jane," the woman at concierge called.

"Brenda," he responded with a wave.

He took a few turns and entered a gallery. A student was hunched over an art board surrounded by cubist works, carefully sketching. Patrick stopped right next to him, let his presence register. When the blond haired student glanced up at him, he spoke, "You just keep getting better, Jason."

"You think so?" he sounded hopeful.

"Definitely." Patrick rocked on his heels as he hovered. He spoke a little louder. "You have a very analytical mind. You into computers?"

The young man looked up at him in puzzlement. He whispered back, "You know I am. What are you —"

Patrick tilted his head towards the young woman security officer in the corner. "Play along. I'll get you a date within the week."

Jason flushed and put his eyes firmly back on his art.

"I think I'd like to buy this one," Patrick spoke up again.

He startled at that, sat up and revealed more of his project. It was a black and white loose version of a cubist violin. "Seriously? It's just a value study."

Patrick hovered, pointing out a section of the piece. "Your textures here are remarkable. You've captured the lines very well. An original interpretation." He looked between the original and the copy. "Very good. Will you finish today?"

"Yes," he spoke up, then added quietly. "I need it for my class."

"I'll come by later. Sell me anything you have, it will seal the deal." He nodded towards the security officer again and wiggled his eyebrows.

The young man's face went white and he stared at his board again. "She's coming," he hissed.

He turned, not missing a beat. "Good morning, Miss… Vega. I haven't met you yet, I'm Patrick."

He offered his hand and she shook it carefully. "Nice to meet you. Everything okay over here?"

"Never better. Have you met my friend, Jason?"

"Hello." Jason ventured.

"Hi. I'm Michelle."

"Perfect," Patrick flashed a grin and kept moving. "I'll see you this afternoon."

"What's with that guy?" he heard Michelle ask.

"He's a big donor here, I see him all the time. He's, like, crazy rich."

X

The delivery truck rumbled through the alley and stopped at the loading dock behind the museum.

Two curators leapt up to meet the driver as he stepped down from the cab.

"You're late," the older one accused; grey hair, glasses, stern nose.

"You must be Dr. Steiner." The driver handed over a clipboard. "Sorry for the delay. Traffic."

"Where's Mr. Mancini?" the curator demanded.

He stuck out his hand, "Name's Reede. Your usual guy will be back Monday."

Steiner glared at his proffered hand. Reede pulled back, brushing it down his thick paunch. The other curator gave a little wave. "I'm Brett."

Steiner looked over the paperwork, moving a pen along the words as he muttered. He finished and snapped his attention back to the driver. "Right, let's get this inside. I have a new exhibit to finalize."

They went to the back of the truck. The driver pulled out a ramp and unlocked the door, it rolled up on metal rails revealing a massive wooden crate. Stenciled arrows pointed which way was up. The dolly that he produced seemed inadequate.

The three men worked together to maneuver it off the truck and into the building. Near the door Reede ducked his head. "That's quite the nest. You have pigeons out here?"

"You're mistaken. We take every precaution to keep vermin out."

He nodded a little, steadied the crate as they passed the threshold. "That's a good word. Vermin."

The first security checkpoint was just inside the door. The other two held back as Steiner tapped in a code. There was a buzz as the locks disengaged.

The elevator required a key. They went down two levels.

Another set of doors required a fingerprint. The third, labeled "vault" needed a retina scan. It was noticeably cooler in here. They pushed the crate into the middle of the open space. The two curators wielded matching crowbars and worked together to gently pry off the facing side.

Brett pulled off the tall board and set it safely against the wall. Dr. Steiner pulled out some packing material and stood with one hand on his hip, frowning.

"I'm meant to have a sarcophagus."

The driver looked between the large carousel horse and his clipboard with his own frown. "Says sarcophagus on here."

The younger curator came to look it over with a critical eye. "It's a nice piece."

The sculpture was carved from one block of rough gray stone. The horse itself was left rough, but the saddle and delicate filigree were highly detailed and polished smooth. It was in mid stride and elevated off the ground by a simple black pole.

"It's no sarcophagus." Steiner pointed out.

"I'm sorry, what's the protocol here?" asked Reede.

Steiner found the paperwork tucked in with the sculpture and flipped through it with a sigh. "I don't have time to juggle sculptures today. Someone screwed up, but it's secured. I'll make some calls. You can go."

"I don't know how that happened."

"It's more often than you'd think," said Brett.

"Not that often," Steiner corrected.

The vault door closed behind them, their voices abruptly cut out. A panel in the back of the horse clicked open.

x

Patrick nodded at several security people as he passed through the wide hallways. Sculptures and benches dotted the commons.

The museum was a maze, but one he was well familiar with. The paintings were grouped by era. Each gallery had two entrances off the main hallways, and sometimes it made sense to take a short cut here and there, or to take a quick breeze through a gallery to see a favorite piece of art.

He turned again, through a wide doorway, and came to a stop a few feet into one of the galleries. He basked in the natural light coming though a skylight before settling onto one of the simple benches adorning the middle of the room. This room was full of impressionist art, bright dabs of color in their ornate frames. He smiled at the painting in front of him, took in the brush strokes and strong presence of it.

A landscape, showing the Canal Saint-Martin in Paris. Most of the painting was water and sky, the short choppy brush strokes associated with the Impressionist era accented the light, the fluffy clouds, the reflections on the water. It was soothing.

He pulled out his thermos and, using the lid as a cup, poured himself the perfect cup of tea. He sighed in satisfaction.

"Back again, Mr. Jane?" a heavy set man wearing a security uniform came up behind him. "Always glad to see you in this section."

Patrick turned slightly. "Good morning, J.J."

The man's eyes shifted back and forth as he spoke. "The new exhibit opens this afternoon. I assume you're coming?"

"Wouldn't miss it. But, you know me, I'm happy right here, with the Sisley."

The large man veered off towards another painting. "You know, most people who come to this exhibit, they go right for the Monet. It's the highlight of our collection."

Patrick glanced over at the painting in question. "Impression, Sunrise" depicted a grey morning at the port of Le Havre, Monet's home town. The sun was a point of interest, a bright orange dot in the haze. His eyes made a quick circuit of it, then he shrugged and turned back to his boats. "It's nice enough."

"Nice? It defined the Impressionist movement. Do you know how much it's worth?"

"'Art is in the eye of the beholder.' This one speaks to me." He sipped his tea and gestured towards his painting of choice. "You know these artists painted together? They shared techniques, secrets, lives. They were good friends. Who determines what art is worth? Who elevates Monet over Sisley? A moment in time. Fickle audiences. No one liked the Impressionists when they were just starting. Most of them died poor and faded into obscurity. I would go so far as to say —"

LaRoche held up a meaty hand to interrupt. "Yes, yes, I see your point." He tilted his head, placing one finger on his earpiece to hear it better. "Enjoy your canal." He backed away, surprisingly silent on his large frame.

Patrick turned back and closed his eyes for a moment. He allowed himself to be present in this moment, the hush of the other patrons, the aromatic steam from his tea, and the beauty of the art. He lingered.

X

A petite woman in black clothing stood by the horse, light on her feet. She reached into the cavity of the faux statue and pulled out a small wire cage. Two pigeons rustled inside. She cooed to them as she pulled out a sling backpack and strapped it on. She replaced the panel cover.

There wasn't any security to bypass to leave the vault. She listened carefully before taking to the hallway. She went deeper into the building. The hallway opened up into the utilities area. She paused by a sign that warned about lasers in use.

They covered the hallway and a grid of wires that ran close to the ceiling, powering the magnetic locks on the more valuable paintings elsewhere in the building.

She opened the small cage and coaxed the pigeons out. They flew upwards to find perches, breaking the security beams. She instinctively ducked her head and covered her ears as the alarms went off. She hurried through the section to the shadows and waited.

X

The office was as energizing as the museum was relaxing. Open plan cubicles, employees bustling past each other, and everyone talking urgently on their phones. The business known as P. Jane Acquisitions took up the entire top floor. He owned the building. He owned a lot of buildings.

Bright artwork hung on banners throughout the space. The offices and conference rooms were around the outside, flooded with natural light from the large windows.

Patrick's assistant stood up as he approached. "They're waiting for you, Mr. Jane. You didn't forget your tea?" she added in disbelief.

He gave a mock frown. "Afraid so. It's been one of those mornings."

She frowned back. "I hope it's not a bad sign. I'll make you a cup and bring it straight in."

"Thank you." He snapped and paused. "Almost forgot." He brought a bouquet of flowers from behind his back.

His assistant smiled brightly as she took them. "I do love your tricks, Mr. Jane."

He winked in return and went straight to the conference room.

The men all stood abruptly at his entrance. Three buyers, his lawyer, and an observer from security. He breezed past them to his chair at the opposite side of the table.

"This is most irregular, keeping us waiting," one of the buyers complained as they all took their seats.

"Careful, Mr. Bertram. I might change my mind." Patrick was already glancing over the paperwork as he spoke. His lawyer handed him a pen. "Everything as we discussed?"

"It's all in there." Mr. Ardiles assured him. "The buyers have already signed."

"Any questions for me?" He looked up at the men.

The two on the outside glanced at Mr. Bertram. He sat calmly, his hands folded in front of him on the table. He maintained eye contact and shook his head as he smiled. It was not a kind smile.

Patrick looked back at the paperwork. Mr. Ardiles talked him through the fine points of the contract and pointed where to sign.

Everyone held their breath as his pen hovered over the signature line. He put them out of their misery, put his name to the paper. The men, in contrast to their smart suits, clapped and hooted. "I never thought I'd see the day we got Patrick Jane to sell!"

Jane's lips quirked up as he stood again. "Fortuitous timing. Developers are coming into the area, the value of that property is about to drop."

"Now wait a minute —" their smiles vanished.

"Still, you might be able to get a team together, change their plans. Your board might have some good ideas."

The lawyer stepped between them, backed by security, giving him time to clear the room. Patrick took a tea cup from his surprised assistant at the doorway. "You'll find that everything is in order, gentlemen. Thank you for doing business with Jane Acquisitions."

"That's it? Cheat us, and send us on our way?"

"That's business, gentlemen, not cheating. It's signed. Congratulations on your new building. You can keep the pens. Karl here will show you out."

X

It took longer than she expected for security to respond. There was a harrowing minute when they came close to her hiding place before they noticed the pigeons. Finally, they shut off the lasers and the alarms.

They stood together out in the open, staring up at the birds. "How'd they even get in here?" one of them asked. "There's at least three locked doors between the loading dock and here."

"It's a fluke," the other one answered. He was clearly impatient. "Let's leave it for now, we can't get up there."

"Yeah. I suppose we'll have to call someone."

The intruder waited five minutes after they left. She made her way to a utility box marked "phone" and opened the panel. She dropped her backpack by her feet so she could access it. She pulled out some wires and made some careful splices to add a small, flat box to the array. Two LED lights started flashing, indicating it was working.

She checked her connections and pulled out a smart phone. A few more taps and she nodded in satisfaction. She put the phone away and put a bluetooth headset in her ear. The panel closed neatly over her modifications.

She checked the room again before moving to the AC unit. She traced the conduits with her fingers in the air, then went in with a wrench and loosened some sound of the airflow changed slightly, going more high pitched.

She stepped back and went to her small kit. She put away the tools and put on a long colorful dress over her black clothes, transforming her from intruder to an innocent lost wanderer.

Her phone vibrated. She checked the display and tapped her headset. "Pest Control, how can I help you?" She paused to listen. "Pigeons in a museum? That sounds like a nightmare. Of course, we can send someone right away, let me confirm your address."

She blew a kiss to the pigeons as she bypassed the one-way security systems and strolled out the back door.

X

Patrick could see the museum from his office. From here the people were little more than dots dodging matchbox cars.

"Any more soul crushing plans for the day?" Ardiles appeared in the doorway, breaking into his thoughts.

"That felt pretty good," Jane said with a mischievous smile. "They've been a thorn in my side for a long time."

Ardiles cracked a full laugh. "The look on their faces."

Patrick allowed the moment of triumph, then returned to business. "We have some smaller deals coming up next week. Let's make sure the wheels are moving smoothly."

"Will do. I am on it, everything is looking good."

"That's what I like to hear." He checked his watch. "I have to make some calls."

"Sure," Ardiles said, leaning back into the hallway. "We still on for lunch?"

"Absolutely. We've got a lot to celebrate!"

Patrick followed him out. He leaned out the doorway towards his assistant's desk. "No interruptions, please."

"Yessir, Mr. Jane. Is your couch calling?"

He winked at her and went back in, closing the door behind him. It was no secret he hated conventional desks. He preferred working from his overstuffed leather couch, though it didn't always look like work to the casual observer.

But he walked past it now, all joking gone from his face. He stared down at the museum again, watched the people going in and out.

He checked his watch.

Time was an illusion. After the excitement of the morning's dealings, and the anticipation of the afternoon, it was all passing too slowly. He watched a school bus full of children unload in front of the museum. He pressed a number on speed dial.

A woman's voice answered. "Museum of Fine Arts, how may I direct your call?"

Patrick blew out a breath and smiled into the phone. "You know, I think I dialed the wrong number. You have a great day now."

"Thank you, sir, and you as well."

"Oh, it's going to be a great day."

"I can't disagree," the woman in her colorful dress tapped her headset and settled back into her chair in front of the coffee shop. She could see the museum from here, she had a front row seat.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chap 2/3 need to be together, so here is it, a little early. Following the structure of the movie, a lot happens right up front here! If you get lost, let me know (that's probably my fault)! Thank you for reading!

"Here's a fun fact — before the Impressionist movement, no one ever painted outside. Anything they wanted to paint, even a landscape, they would do in their studio. Isn't that interesting? It took some time, but this movement changed how people approached art."

The children milled restlessly in the Impressionist gallery. All these paintings looked the same. Catching another bored shuffle, the museum guide changed tactics.

"Look here," she directed, leading them towards _Impression, Sunrise_. "This is by an artist named Claude Monet. He hardly sold any paintings during his life, but now? He's so well known, this particular painting is insured for $250 million."

"Whoa," the children exclaimed. They clustered around to take another look.

"What about this one?"

"How much is this one worth?"

She tugged at the front of her blouse as she moved across the room. It seemed to be hotter than usual today.

X

Lunch turned into a much-needed distraction. Along with Ardiles, Patrick invited his top employees and their assistants. They crowded into one of the conference rooms and caught up and celebrated their successes of the week.

The buzz and chaos of the informal meeting kept Patrick grounded. He stayed in the background and studied his team, enjoying their stories and their excitement for the job.

Eventually he couldn't ignore the pull and went back to his window in solitude. It was the middle of the afternoon when he noticed an air conditioning repair truck park in front of the museum.

He finished his tea and collected an art portfolio case from a closet. Violets was about to open.

"I'm done for the week," he informed his assistant as he locked his office.

She eyed his case. "More acquisitions to make?" she teased.

He smiled indulgently. "Just a little something that caught my eye."

"You do love your art, Mr. Jane."

"I'll be staying for the new Violets exhibit opening. You should go."

"I'm not sure that fits into my schedule."

"I think your boss will allow it."

"Maybe a little later."

X

Two security officers came out of a bathroom and brushed past Patrick as he made his way to the concierge desk. He spun on one foot and watched them go. They didn't acknowledge him.

"What are you up to this afternoon, Mr. Jane?" Brenda called out as he approached.

"Hello, Brenda. How has the day been?"

"Too slow and too busy all at once."

"Oh?"

She waved away his interest. "Maintenance issues. Boring stuff. You must be here for the new exhibit! It just opened." She leaned in and lowered her voice. "They let me get a sneak peek during lunch, it is…" she winked and made a thumbs up gesture.

"I'm looking forward to it." He laid his portfolio on the desk between them. "I'm collecting some artwork from a student before I head over there. Did you need to check my bag?"

He had it unzipped, she leaned down and poked at the opening with her pen, peering inside from a distance. "Where do you put all the art you collect? You could open your own museum," she teased, straightening again. "Bring it back here before you head up, I'll watch it so the security people don't get nervous."

"Great idea, that's very generous," he beamed.

X

The crowds were a bit thin, he expected most people were gathering at the new exhibit. Entering the cubism gallery, Jason scrambled up from his seat at Patrick's appearance. "Good afternoon, Mr. Jane."

He checked his watch. "Show me what you've got."

"Oh, uh, I don't mean to hold you up."

"Not at all. You've been waiting for me."

"I was thinking… if you like the drawing from today, I have time to do something else for my assignment."

"I like it very much." Patrick tapped his lower lip in thought. "Do you do much painting?"

"Sometimes."

"I have an idea. I'll call you. Do you think Miss Vega would like to paint?"

"Maybe. She likes art."

"Good. I'll set something up."

"Okay. So… did you want the drawing?"

"Of course, how much?"

"I don't know. I could just give it to you. There's no one here to impress. And it's kind of weird?"

"Which part is weird?"

He leaned in a little. "It feels like you're trying to set me and Michelle up?"

Patrick smiled gently, a little wistful. "I was young once." He pulled out his wallet and counted out several bills. "Does $500 sound fair?"

Jason's eyes bugged out of his head. "It's not worth even half that much."

"Nonsense. I'm a business man, and I'm making an investment."

"I'm not really an artist."

"Neither am I. Art keeps you grounded. Money pays the bills. You spend too much time here to be working, and you're going to school. You've helped me out a lot these last couple of months." He held out the money again. Jason finally took it.

"I helped you? We were just messing around."

"I'm very serious about my art," he winked. He collected Jason's drawing into his portfolio and waved farewell.

X

Patrick got back to the hallway and looked both ways, tapping his thigh. A helpful sign pointed one way towards the Impressionist gallery. The front entrance and the new exhibit was the opposite direction. He checked his watch and turned towards the Impressionists.

A stream of people passed him going the other way. As he came up on his favorite section of the museum, he saw the entrance blocked with velvet ropes. Two security officers were ushering people away, informing them the exhibit was closed.

A third officer replaced a phone behind a panel on the wall and paused before leaving. He shrugged at Patrick as he passed.

Patrick approached the gallery. He recognized the officer from earlier in the entrance, his chin showed a five o'clock shadow. The other officer looked similarly rough around the edges. "Closing early?" Jane asked.

"For cleaning," the man answered. His voice was pitched a little high, nasal.

"Seems like weird timing," he observed.

"Sorry for the inconvenience," the man replied. He grabbed the phone receiver and held it out in invitation. "Would you like to talk to my boss?"

Patrick narrowed his eyes at him. He pulled out his own phone. "Huh," he

murmured. "No reception." He looked up thoughtfully. The uniforms were right, but there were no name tags.

"You can check out the new exhibit, I heard it's pretty good," the officer suggested. "Come back tomorrow."

Patrick smiled thinly, the man had already turned his back to replace the phone. "Charming." He headed back the other way. He didn't have to go far to find who he was looking for.

"Mr. Jane," acknowledged J.J. LaRoche.

"J.J.." He paused, furrowed his brow. "I've just been chased out of my favorite exhibit."

"Is that right?" LaRoche looked past him down the hallway.

"Cleaning, they said. They're there right now."

"Hmm." LaRoche cracked his neck and moved past him, calling two others to join him. Patrick looked towards the entrance, rocked on his heels, and followed them back the way he'd come from.

The gallery was emptied out of people. The two security guys were walking around inside. One of them kept looking up at the skylight, the other had his back turned, speaking into a radio device.

LaRoche and his posse walked past the ropes and stopped, just short of them. "What's going on here?"

"We're closed for cleaning," the man dropped his radio into his pocket to address them.

"I haven't been notified of any changes. I lead this section." LaRoche informed him.

"There are some VIPs coming in after hours," he explained. He gestured towards the phone panel. "You want to call the boss?"

Silence hung between them. LaRoche's eyes moved rapidly back and forth as he assessed the situation. "No," he decided. "We've had a lot of special visitors lately, I'm sure something was overlooked." His smile looked strangely static. "We'll leave you to it."

He half turned, but paused, looking into the center of the gallery with his periphery vision. In the light cast through the skylight, he saw the distinct shadow of a helicopter's spinning blades.

He blinked.

He pulled a silver cylinder from his belt. It telescoped out into a taser prod with a metallic noise. His head jerked up and he stared the offending officer in the face. "I _am_ the boss," he growled, then pressed the taser into his side.

The man went down. His friend panicked and dodged past them out into the hallway. Patrick tripped him up from the bench he was observing from, but he scrambled up and kept going as the real security officers stormed out to chase him.

LaRoche hauled the tasered guy to his feet and started dragging him towards the the entrance. He paused in the hallway to slam the other end of his prod through a plastic barrier by the phone, pressing a panic button. An alarm sounded and a gate started down to block the exhibit.

Patrick stood in the middle of the hallway, trying to make sense of it. Another alarm sounded from the opposite wing past the entrance. They echoed, calling and answering in a disorienting cacophony. A cluster of people streamed past him, fighting for the way out.

The security gate continued it's descent to block the gallery. Patrick surged towards it. He produced a key from his vest pocket, and inserted it into an exposed keyhole by the alarm button. He turned it sharply and the gate ground to a halt, two feet from the floor.

He pushed the portfolio through and flattened himself under the gate. He scrambled to the _Impression, Sunrise_ painting, not sparing a glance towards the _View of the Canal Saint-Martin_ he claimed to love. He laid out the portfolio, lifted the painting from the wall, cast aside the ornate gold frame, and nestled the painting inside his case.

He zipped it partway, engaged a button, flicked it back and forth, and only Jason's drawings were left visible. He closed it the rest of the way, grabbed his thermos from under the bench he'd lingered on earlier in the day, squeezed back under the gate, removed the key to allow the gate to close, and headed for the museum entrance.

Security was everywhere, trying to track down any other accomplices.

Patrick noticed some of them standing with the homeless man from earlier that morning. He looked genuinely confused at the tripped fire alarm nearby as they secured his hands and led him outside along with the crowds of people exiting in a panic.

A firetruck pulled up outside, lights flashing. More sirens were heading their direction.

Patrick was caught up in the crowd of uncertainty. Children were being herded onto a school bus. Some of the crowd wore fancy dress, ready for a night on the town and the new exhibit opening. Foot traffic wasn't sure where to go, everyone muddled into a roiling mess.

Patrick skirted the edge. A familiar face startled into his view. His assistant grabbed at his arm. "This way, Mr. Jane." She led him to the street, his car was waiting there. He ushered her in first. The driver took off.

His assistant turned to him with wide eyes. "What was all that about? There wasn't a fire, I hope?"

Jane turned to look out the back window and she did the same. "No, I don't think so. Someone tried to rob the museum."

"In the middle of the afternoon?"

"Brazen. They must have been counting on the new exhibit as a distraction."

She pressed a hand to her chest. "They didn't succeed?"

"No, we stopped them."

"You?"

"Just a small part. Where can we drop you off? And don't tell me the office."

"Oh, I don't know. Anywhere is fine, I'll get a rideshare to take me home."

"Nonsense. You swooped in and rescued me. It's the least I could do."

"Okay. Wait! What about your business? Did you collect your art?"

"Oh yes," he grinned. "I'm quite happy with my transaction."

X

His butler, Luther, came to meet him in the entryway as he arrived home. "Good evening, sir."

"Patrick," he corrected absently, handing over the portfolio. "Please take this to my study."

Luther nodded. "I set out a bottle of wine."

It was apparent from the first step that this house belonged to an art collector. A giant reclining figure carved from marble dominated the entry, along with rows of paintings, all the way up the stairs. It did, indeed, look like his own personal museum.

Jane removed his jacket and tie, hanging them on a wrought iron hat rack in the corner. He rolled up his shirt sleeves as he meandered through the kitchen. He grabbed the bottle of wine and poured some into a glass.

He took his first sip while looking out the wall of windows towards the ocean. His shoulders relaxed. This view was his balm every day. He could get lost in it. Some sailboats tacked in the wind. Better than any painting.

He tore himself away and made his way upstairs to the study. Luther was out of sight, always trusted to remain in the background. Loyal. Efficient. Discreet.

He closed the French doors behind him and set his wine down on an end table. Built in bookshelves lined the room. A heavy desk was tucked into one corner. A set of leather furniture clustered around a gas fireplace. Behind the couch, in the middle of the room, was a chess table and chairs.

Above the fireplace was a large copy of a circus painting by Chagall. It was set into a panel, no gap between the frame and the wall. There was an ornate candle holder on each end of the mantle, holding tall white taper candles.

He tugged on one of the candlesticks, pulling it toward him about an inch. The painting slid upward into the wall, revealing a rough white stone alcove. Jane went to the portfolio, rocked it back and forth to operate the hidden compartment, then drew out the canvas. He held it reverently, studying the brush strokes. He placed it in the alcove and dropped down onto his couch.

He drank some wine, then found himself grinning wildly. A laugh bubbled out of him. Then another. He couldn't seem to stop, and he couldn't care less. He had an original Monet in his house.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having Pike in this story seemed an obvious choice, but it's such a different dynamic from the movie! Very fun to write, but he also created some interesting challenges, especially long term. Can't make things too easy for Jane and Lisbon though, right? Thanks for reading, I appreciate your reviews and comments!

"There he is. Agent Pike," his partner Madeleine Hightower waved him over. Her hair was pulled back tightly against her head, a smart pantsuit complimented her dark skin. Marcus had no doubt she would excel someday in a management role, but for now he was more than thrilled she was on the investigation team.

The museum looked different at night without the natural light coming in the windows. The place was swarming with law enforcement - LAPD, FBI, internal security. They were starting a walk through, already moving. Marcus hustled to join.

"You get everything sorted?" Hightower leaned in to ask discreetly.

"I had to leave a message."

"She'll get it."

He tugged at his jacket and raised his voice as he switched to the matter at hand. "They find the helicopter?"

"Yeah. It was a red herring. Tour company doing a flyover."

"At that exact moment? What are the odds? Who was the tourist? Who set the route?"

"So far all we know is it was a contest winner."

"Who sponsored the contest?"

"Still digging." She lifted a hand and turned slightly. "This is the museum director, Mr. Papadakis."

The man in question hurried slightly to catch up and walk beside them. He was an older gentleman, slightly plump with white hair. In other circumstances, Pike suspected he would have a kind face, but tonight it was pinched in anger.

Pike reached across Hightower to shake his hand. "Sorry to be here."

"It's a tragedy, a sad day for everyone."

"Yes, it is." He shifted back to his partner. "Who are the actors?"

"We picked up two guys. Lots of priors, low level thieves."

"They wake up one morning and decide to rob a museum? No wonder it went south."

She hummed in disapproval. "The more you look at it, the less it makes sense."

"But in the end, it was just the one painting?"

"But such an important one," the director piped up. "It's a seminal work, a historical watershed. Irreplaceable."

Pike came to an abrupt stop, forcing the whole group behind him to pause. He turned to the director, gave him his full attention and concern. "I know what that Monet was, to this museum and to art lovers everywhere. I'll do everything I can to get it back where it belongs — in your gallery."

The director nodded and looked away shakily. "Thank you."

"Now. You can't just grab a Monet off the wall, how did they get past security?"

"That's where it gets really sketchy."

X

Her heels clacked against the tiled floor. It made her feel intrusive, but she had learned a long time ago that confidence made all the difference. She wasn't dressed for work, but she belonged here, she wasn't going to hide.

They stopped her briefly at the crime tape, but one of the FBI guys recognized her and waved her through. "He's walking the scene," he informed her.

"Thanks."

She slowed as she came up on the group, a cluster of suits and credentials. In the middle of them, Marcus Pike had short dark hair and an earnest face as he led them through the operation and what they knew.

They were standing just inside the gallery, more crime tape marking the absence of the painting. A security gate was partway down in the doorway. Lisbon stayed out in the hallway to listen, out of the way.

"So they took out the locking system for the paintings, we think they are responsible for the air breaking down. Make things uncomfortable upstairs, thin out the crowds. There had to be more than these two guys, how did they get downstairs?"

"Pigeons," someone stated.

"Excuse me?"

"Some pigeons got into the utilities area. They had to call in Pest Control."

"Were they left unsupervised?"

"Had to. Said they needed to fully control the environment to catch the birds."

"When did the A/C go out?"

"Couple hours after."

"Excuse me, but wasn't a new exhibit opening at the time? It's advertised all over the building. Wouldn't that thin the crowds? They didn't need the heat for that."

Pike's head whipped over at the familiar voice. He smiled broadly as he looked her up and down, admiring her dress. She hardly noticed, she was clearly caught up in her thoughts, work mode. "Good to see you, Teresa. Come on in."

She came closer, short steps in her heels. "If the A/C was tampered with — did they want the heat, or did they need the access the repair crew could easily attain? Were they up on the roof?"

"Yeah, one went up," someone answered.

"Unsupervised?" Pike asked.

"Security got called away by a patron by the elevator."

"Find anything up there?"

"Cargo nets."

"Just nets? How were they getting through the skylight?"

"Maybe they didn't get that far?"

"So…" Pike summarized. "Pest control, A/C repair, two petty thieves dressed as security. A helicopter with a cover story. What am I missing?"

"The other fire alarm," Hightower stated.

"Cleared everyone out."

"They picked up one José Merlo, homeless," a police officer consulted his notepad. "They caught him standing there, staring at the blue dye on his hands. He didn't try to run. But get this — he doesn't remember doing it."

"Two minutes after he pulls it, he doesn't remember? What's his story? Any PTSD?" Pike asked.

"Not that we could tell. Just out of work, trying to feed his kids."

"It's an unlikely crew. Do any of these people intersect? How would they know each other?"

"And who took the painting? Did we miss somebody? A third actor with the fake security? Plainclothes maybe?"

"What other questions do we need to be asking?"

There was a pause.

"How did the pigeons get there? And if the service people were in on it, how did they make sure those people were the ones called in? Was it an inside job?" Lisbon asked.

"I'm sorry, who are you with?" one of the police officers questioned.

"Teresa Lisbon. CBI."

"What does CBI have to do with this case?"

"Nothing," she assured them. "I'm just passing through."

"You raise good questions," Pike assured her. "We'll take all the help we can get on this one."

"Sounds complicated. From what I've been hearing, a lot of unrelated stuff happened, and a painting disappeared."

"The guy was either really lucky or—"

"He orchestrated this to a high level. Who do you have in custody?"

"So far the only people we can hold are the thieves."

"Have they given anything up?"

Pike shook his head. "We're just getting started."

The head of security stretched his neck across the way, drawing her attention. He wasn't part of the group, but he watched them with shrewd eyes. Lisbon leaned in to whisper, "You holding the security officer?"

"No. He's hovering, this is his baby. They always hate it when we take over."

"I took his statement first thing," Hightower leaned over. "He left for awhile, but he's been watching."

"I know what that's like," Lisbon smiled. "Looks like he's got something."

The officer was holding something in his meaty hands, his eyes shifted rapidly as he watched them. Lisbon pushed through the center of the small group to reach his side. Pike followed, and Hightower shortly after.

"I'm Lisbon. CBI," she got straight to the point.

"J.J. LaRoche. Head of security for the west wing."

"You were there."

"Yes I was."

"What've you got?" she gestured towards his prize with her chin.

"I've put together a chart," he stated as he flipped open the cover, bringing it flush with the back along a high quality spiral spine. It showed a map of the Impressionist gallery and the hallway outside it. Different colored dots were scattered along it. "This is everyone who was in this part of the building when the fire alarm went off."

He flipped the top page, an acrylic layer that removed some of the stickers from the map. "These are the key players, they had the best chance to take the painting." He flipped another layer, leaving five dots. "These are my top suspects."

"Impressive," Lisbon said, leaning closer.

"I bet you won a lot of science fairs," Agent Hightower commented genially.

LaRoche shifted, drawing himself taller. "All respect, Agent… I won all of them." It was a threat and a promise all in one.

Hightower's eyebrows rose and she turned away, leaving them to it.

Pike leaned in with Lisbon, shoulder to shoulder, studying the map. "These are all security officers. You think this was an inside job?"

"My team is highly vetted. There were some… last minute… substitutions. I cannot account for everyone, especially with the known impostors."

"What tipped you off that something was wrong?"

"One of our regular patrons. He frequents that exhibit."

"Where is he on your map?"

He flipped one page back and pointed to a blue circle. "Here."

"Why did you exclude him?"

"He's a big donor. He respects the art."

"He got a name?" Lisbon prompted.

"Patrick Jane."

Lisbon jerked back in shock. Suddenly she was too far inside her own head, a faint ringing around the edges. That name again. Her fingers were cold. Something warm came against them and she grasped at it. Marcus. She couldn't do this here. She closed her eyes, leaned away from him to stand on her own.

Pike peered at her curiously. "You know him?"

Lisbon focused on LaRoche. "Was he ever alone in the exhibit?"

"He helped us apprehend one of the men, tripped him in the hallway."

"Was he left alone with the painting? Did he have opportunity?"

"When I left, the gates were down. He was outside the gallery."

She shook her head. "How did you compile your information? It must have been chaos."

"I was there. I know these people. I know this museum inside and out, and I can tell you two things for sure. I will figure this out. And it wasn't Patrick Jane."

He held her gaze, challenging, and she didn't back down.

"Teresa," Pike said gently. "What do you know?"

She tilted her head, then walked briskly to a far corner, the staccato tapping of her heels drawing the attention of the small crowd. Pike followed closely. "He did it," she hissed as soon as they had some privacy.

He spoke with an open expression, "Okay. Where's the evidence?"

"He was there." Lisbon shook her head. "I know what he can do. It was Patrick Jane. I'm sure of it."

"He's a billionaire. He's going to have flesh eating lawyers and political influence. You can't just go after a guy like Patrick Jane. Especially when your whole argument is a flip chart."

"Maybe you can't." She was set, stubborn. Challenging. Loud.

One of the police guys laughed, tried to turn it into a cough.

Marcus was all too aware of the eyes on them. This wasn't the place. He didn't doubt her instincts, but he couldn't just give in without knowing more. He ran a hand through his hair. "Let me finish up here. We'll talk it out."

X

"So what's the deal with Patrick Jane?"

They were in his car driving to his condo after grabbing some take-out. Lisbon frowned. They were in a residential area now, the light from the street lamps flickered across her face. Light, then shadow. She spoke in the darkness. "His wife and child were victims of Red John."

"Ah," he let the silence stretch between them, but she wasn't saying anymore. "You don't talk about Red John." He waited again, but her lips were pressed together as she stared out the window. "What did Jane do?"

She sucked in a breath, let it out slowly. "I wasn't on the case yet, when they died. It was a few months after, when they passed it to me. I had to reinterview everyone. At that time, Jane was unreachable. We didn't know where he was."

"That's not too surprising, considering."

"No," she said carefully. "A couple months later he showed up at the CBI." She finally looked over at him. "He was in rough shape, Marcus. Wrinkled clothes, unkempt, lost. He looked like hell." Pike glanced at her, nodded. "He wanted to know what we knew about the case. I couldn't —"

"It's against policy."

"Yeah, big time. I shut him down, told him his statement would help me more than his opinion. It wasn't what he wanted to hear. The next four years he showed up at every single Red John crime scene. It didn't matter what measures we took, he was all over it. He could talk or hypnotize his way into anywhere. We took out restraining orders, arrested him. Didn't matter. He could talk his way out of jail too."

"He wanted Red John to be caught, didn't he? I mean, what was the point?"

"He wanted his own justice. He was willing to sabotage our case to get it. He had his own files, kept information from us." Lisbon leaned her head back and closed her eyes.

"But you got him. You did it the right way." Lisbon's lips tightened in response. He shifted away from the topic. "What are the odds he's connected to my case?" She didn't acknowledge him. "I'll give you Jane's file tomorrow."

"You have a file?"

"He's very active in the art world, buying and selling. Nothing suspicious, it's a thin file. But it might be useful to you."

"Useful to _me_?" she pushed back. "I have a flight home day after tomorrow. I understand if you need to work, but that's not why I'm here. There are a lot of things in L.A. that don't involve me solving art crimes."

"Teresa," he calmed her hands by covering them with his own. The car was stopped in front of his condo, she looked at it in surprise. She'd been too distracted to notice their approach. "I had big plans for this weekend. Believe me, this wasn't part of any of it."

"I understand, Marcus. It's the job."

"I love that you understand. This relationship wouldn't work otherwise. But if this is the guy, it sounds like you could help. "

"You don't need my help. I don't know anything about art."

"I trust your instincts. With your history, you can get to Jane in ways that I can't. Shake him up."

She sucked in a breath. "Marcus, I really can't."

He squeezed her hand. "I've never known you to back down from anything. Give it a couple of days. Feel it out. Be my consultant."

"You're asking me to stay longer?"

He flashed a grin. "I definitely don't mind if you stick around." His hand found hers in the dark. "Besides the pleasure of your company, everything you touch is golden. I could use the win."

"Still having trouble closing on that smash and grab crew? It's been a couple months."

"We figured out one guy. But it's the wrong guy. Evidence is circumstantial, we're getting squeezed, and they are escalating. They took out a new gallery last week. They're violent, it's only a matter of time before someone gets hurt — or killed. But I can't just ignore a stolen Monet. You know what it's like, prioritizing cases for the wrong reasons?"

"Every case is important." She said, but it felt hollow. Homicide was a different world than art crime. Still, she saw an opportunity. She paused to think. "I suppose I am between cases. I can take some extra time. But I talk to Jane on my own terms."

"Okay," he sounded too cheerful. "Can I clear it with your boss? Make it official?"

"Sure." She bit her lip. "Does that make me honorary FBI?"

"You want a placard? That's really what this is about, isn't it? You trying to edge me out, Agent Lisbon?" he asked with mock sternness. He leaned over the console into her personal space. "Just my luck, getting stuck with you on my back." He kissed her.

She smiled against his lips. "Oh, who knows? You might enjoy it."


	5. Chapter 5

Agent Pike settled into the padded chair, unwrapped a breakfast bar and took a healthy bite. Hightower, sitting next to him, looked at him sideways.

"You tell her yet?"

"I haven't had a chance."

"Pfft. Excuses."

He shifted again, straightened his suit jacket. "This case has really bad timing."

"Remind me how long you've been together."

"Six months, when we can. The distance doesn't make it easy."

"It's never going to be easy. You and I both know, when it's real, you gotta move on it. Be intentional."

There was a moment of silence while they both pondered their failed marriages.

Pike sighed. "I'll make time. She — hey, Teresa."

He stood up as Teresa appeared in the doorway, carrying a large to-go cup of coffee, with a breakfast bar perched on top.

"Good morning," she replied, then stifled a small yawn behind her cup.

Hightower grinned. "Hey there, Little Lady," she greeted Lisbon. "I heard you were joining us for a little while."

Lisbon smiled back. "This should be fun. I mean—"

"I know what you mean. We all take satisfaction in the work, a good team makes all the difference."

Pike looked between them in amusement. "'Little Lady?'" he teased.

Hightower stood up and crossed her arms. "That's just for me. How about you go round up a security officer?"

He raised his eyebrows at that. "You got it," he spoke under his breath as he left them alone.

"It's about time Marcus brought you in. The way he talks you up, you'll be working here in no time."

Lisbon shook her head. "Just the one case. I have a great job. The CBI has been good for me."

"You could love this job too. It's a step up, going federal. Good career move."

She shook her head. "I'm flattered, but —"

"Who's ready to watch some security tapes?" Pike interrupted as a security officer took his place at the video controls.

The officer barely acknowledged them as he started doing his thing while they sat on either side of him. "This is earlier in the day, in the Impressionist Gallery," he stated. The footage was slightly grainy in shades of gray. People glowed white.

"What kind of cameras are these?" Pike asked.

"We've been upgrading to infrared, especially in the high value areas. It works in both light and dark, sensitive to body temperature."

"What's the usual gallery temp?" Lisbon asked.

"Optimal is about 70 degrees Fahrenheit."

"The A/C went out. You think —"

"How hot did it get in there?" Lisbon asked. "Can you skip ahead to the time of the crime?"

"It definitely warmed up, but it has to be over ninety degrees to affect the — whoa." The screen was hazy white, revealing nothing. "It needs ten degrees difference between the room and body temperature to work properly."

"Did it get this hot in other galleries?"

The guard pushed a few buttons, and other rooms in the museum became visible, cycling through. "Doesn't look like it."

"Did they do something special, then, to bump up the heat that much higher? A space heater or some sort of heat pack?"

"Maybe."

The guard pushed a few buttons, rewinding the footage.

"What about the hallway?" Hightower leaned in.

He pushed a few more buttons. "That's a conventional camera, but…" the screen was a mess of static, black and white lines. "Looks like a scrambler. Maybe something in a nearby trash can."

"Is this footage monitored live?"

"Two guards in here all day. We record everything, but the viewing screen cycles through a pattern."

"Who would know the pattern?"

"LaRoche thought it might be an inside job."

"There are also patrols, each section has a team of eight walkers. Random patterns."

"But people make their own patterns and habits. If they were studied —"

"All due respect, ma'am. That's LaRoche's section. They run a very tight ship."

"He said they had some substitutions. We're looking into it."

"If you're going to clear a room, there's a lot of money in that gallery," the officer conceded.

Lisbon frowned. The video footage was turned back to early that morning. A curly-haired man was talking to LaRoche. She couldn't see his face, but she knew that form anywhere. Lisbon was suddenly chilled, captivated. Her voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. "Let's go down there."

X

There were some work lights and crime scene tape still in the gallery. The museum was closed for the morning to allow forensics and law enforcement to finish their observations.

Lisbon turned slowly. Next to her, she knew Pike saw everything through a different lens. She saw paintings, he saw history. Value, stories, artists. He could guess the motivations more easily than she could, but they both saw the puzzle.

She closed her eyes, envisioned the room in the video, then opened them and looked fresh at what was now. She blinked.

"If you were going to steal a painting from this museum… would it be this one?"

"Any of these paintings have a high resale value. If they are sold." Lisbon looked at him askance. "High value means it's also highly recognized. You either need a buyer who will never showcase the art, or use it as collateral in crime worlds." He shrugged. "Sometimes there's a ransom demand. Or… it is just lost." His eyes were so expressive, Lisbon couldn't help but feel the pain he felt at the notion.

She reached out to him. "This is so important to you."

"Art theft is one of the most selfish forms of crime." He gestured to the room. "It's irreplaceable."

She looked again, tried to see it his way. It was all blobs of paint on canvas. Some of it nice to look at, but dressed up, pretentious. She crossed her arms, hugging herself. "It's all insured, isn't it?"

"Yes. But the Monet alone is $250 million, they're not going to just write a check without looking into it. It could be held up for months."

Lisbon gave a low whistle, and went over to the camera. It all looked normal to her. "He was here, earlier that morning. You think he left something behind to increase the heat?"

"It would have to be small, hard to notice. They didn't find anything. Come on," Pike tugged at her. "Let's get what we need so we can get out of here."

X

Within the hour they were back in his car.

"Lunch?" Pike asked.

"Office," Lisbon responded.

"Not hungry?"

"I'll find something later. I need to know more about the thieves in custody."

Pike checked the time. "Jane's coming in to give a witness statement." She turned abruptly, accusingly. "We've got time." He glanced at her, sighed. "I'm not used to seeing you on the job. You do take breaks, right?"

Her expression softened. "Every minute counts in a murder investigation. I can get a little… preoccupied."

"I understand." He took her hand and kissed it, eyes still on the road. "That's what makes you the best."

X

They rode up in the elevator together, Pike tearing open a wrapped sandwich. Lisbon held hers with a tight grip, her gaze far away.

The doors dinged open and they were in chaos. The bullpen was crammed full of desks, agents milling around, conferring with their colleagues and taking statements.

Pike led her to his office, with two desks in it. His side had two art prints in between some low book shelves. He gave her his chair and took a bite of his sandwich. There was a picture of the two of them on his desk. "You should eat. It's going to get crazy."

His phone rang, punctuating his statement. He held up a finger in apology and turned away to take the call. "Now? Okay, thanks." He turned back. "He's on his way up." Teresa stiffened. "They're starting him on a line up. Where do you want to be?"

"These guys were caught in the act, what do you need a line up for?"

"Makes the perps sweat a bit, gives the witness a place to start."

"Where are you taking his statement, after?"

"Usually a desk, in the bullpen."

She frowned. "Too open."

"Can't do it in here. You want me to put him in interrogation?"

"He'll get suspicious."

"I can spin it."

They entered a hallway lined with doors. Pike stopped at one and scribbled something on a log-in sheet, claiming the room. The door opened with a well-oiled woosh. The observation room was empty. "You good to wait in here?"

She lifted her sandwich with a tight smile. "No problem."

His eyes roamed her face, before he indulged in a quick peck. "We won't be long," he said softly, then backed out of the room. The door closed with a soft click.

Lisbon sighed and familiarized herself with the room. She unwrapped her sandwich and bit off a small corner. More bread than filling, but she was too amped up to enjoy it anyway. It became mechanical, with her thoughts churning, she didn't taste it.

She ate the last bite, staring blankly, when the door opened in the next room. She startled to attention. Jane came in first. Her heart beat faster, an anxiety she couldn't restrain any longer.

He wore a three piece suit with no tie. His hair was well groomed, the curls carefully tended. If anything, he looked younger, his face was open and light. The lines around his eyes were playful, rather than oppressed. The years without Red John had been kind to Patrick Jane.

Marcus followed close after him. He glanced towards the mirror before gesturing Jane towards a chair. Jane put his hands in his pockets, and remained standing. He glanced around the room. "Should I call my lawyer?" he teased. "You have my statement."

"Not at all, sorry. It's quieter in here. I just have a couple of follow up questions."

Lisbon took a step back as Jane came up to the mirror, smiling with all his teeth. He seemed to see her, but remained fixed as she side stepped. He turned his back to her. "Crazy, wasn't it? You ever seen an art heist like that?"

"Not quite like that, no. But I am in art crimes, I see a lot of theft. Art galleries, mostly."

"It's a shame. I can't imagine someone thinking they could get away with a thing like this."

"It's an air tight case, we caught them red handed. Are you willing to testify?"

"Of course."

Pike came around him, getting Jane to turn slightly towards the glass. "I will warn you, Mr. Jane. Guys like this, they have friends. They might try to make things ugly for a witness. I'm prepared to offer you protection —"

"Hmm. I understand. I guess I'll just take my chances. Was there anything else?"

To Lisbon he seemed amused. Just a hint of a smile played on his lips. There was no sign of concern about him. She wondered what he knew.

Pike glanced up towards her again and Lisbon cringed. Marcus was practically screaming her presence. Jane turned more fully, studying the glass. She needed to go. She went straight across the hall into another room. Another interview was being monitored there, several Agents swiveled to examine her.

She went up to the glass and took in the scene. "What do we got?"

She ignored their cross glances. "Excuse me, who are you?"

"I'm working with Agent Pike. Are these the guys from the museum?"

"Where's your identification?"

"Never mind." She slipped out the door and into the next room, ignoring their protests. They were in transition from the line up, the two thieves were cuffed at a table in the corner while the agents debriefed and sorted out who could leave.

She went to them, glancing at the files conveniently set out. "Donald Culpepper," she read, then looked up to see him studying her. She dropped the file and leaned on the table towards him. "How much are they paying you?"

"Lawyer," the other one stated.

Culpepper inclined his head back to address him. "Shut up. They got nothing to hold us. What exactly are the charges? Dressing up as museum security and moving some velvet ropes. And I get tased for that? I should sue."

"A painting is missing, Donny. Same room you were conveniently hanging out in. This is what is going to happen. You and your friend here will each get a chance to tell your story. If they line up, you'll find things much easier for you here."

He scowled. "You have the burden of proof. I don't have to tell you anything."

She leaned closer to speak into his ear. Her words went only to her target as an agent noticed her and yelled from across the room. "What's she doing there?"

Hightower recognized her and stopped the other agent from interfering. Lisbon pulled back, staring down Culpepper. He seemed a little less certain as he shifted in his seat.

The door cracked open. "Teresa?"

Lisbon backed up slowly, still holding his gaze. Then she turned and went with Marcus into the hallway.

"Why'd you leave?" he asked. "No, don't answer that. He checked the room on our way out, I wasn't fast enough. Nearly gave me a heart attack." He took her arm, reassuring himself.

"Is he gone?"

"Yeah, I put him in the elevator myself."

Lisbon squeezed his arm and broke away from him, moving as fast as she could across the bullpen to the wall of windows. Jane was crossing the street, purpose in his stride. A driver opened the back door of a dark green car and he got in.

She studied the profile of the car, it wasn't anything modern. The curves were elegant. From this distance she could just make out an ornament on the front of the hood. A leaping Jaguar. It was the first indication that he was still the man she knew — more refined and running in different circles, but he still loved his classic cars.

Pike stood by her elbow, watching silently with her.

"The thieves are ready to talk. Interrogate them separately."

"You want in?

"No," she said absently as she watched the car drive away. "I'll catch up with you later."

X

It was a smaller crowd than one of their parties. Patrick surveyed the scene as he walked down the small incline. Walter had done well following his hasty instructions. Behind one of their frequented restaurants was a winding lane leading to a secluded, empty parking lot.

He stretched his shoulders and greeted a few people on his way to his friend. Walter's eyes shone mischievously when he arrived.

"Hey, Patrick," Walter drawled, slinging an arm around his shoulders. "Back from the slammer." He paused to let that sink in to the wider audience, then continued in explanation, "Patrick witnessed the art heist yesterday. He's just back from the police —"

"FBI." Patrick corrected, then shook his head. Mashburn didn't need this fuel.

"They questioned him within an inch of his life."

"You're full of it."

"Well, come on, big shot. What'd you bring us out here for?"

There was one car in the lot; a low, sleek Lamborghini. At the end of the lot, a cliff dropped sharply into the ocean. It was very pretty. "I thought we could switch things up. I don't know if you're ready for this, Walter."

Mashburn took the bait, he always did. "If you need my lizard brain to find my car, I made sure to bring the bright yellow one."

"Yes you did, and a terrible color it is, too. We'll make it work." He rubbed his hands together and produced a strip of black cloth. "Shall we?"

"A blindfold? Is that for you or for me?"

Patrick led his friend away towards the car. The crowd stayed back at a respectable distance. "I'll drive," he paused. "It's for me."

To his credit, Walter only looked intrigued.

"You nervous?"

"Of course not. Only, this seems more like my speed than yours."

They came alongside the car and Patrick gave Walter the blindfold and turned his back, letting him tie it on. "Best of both worlds. I'll steer by feeling your reactions."

The blindfold secured, he pushed Patrick forward and down into the driver's seat. "That's very low," he exclaimed, settling into the leather. He reached out for the steering wheel. "Okay, how do I start this thing?"

Walter pushed the ignition and the engine rumbled to life.

Patrick turned slightly to put one hand on Mashburn's shoulder. He rotated his other hand on the steering wheel like a motorcycle throttle and made his own engine sound effects. He felt Walter react, learned what amusement felt like.

"More power than you're used to, eh, Patrick?"

"You're an adrenaline junkie, Mash."

Shrug. Indifference. "We can't all have your refined taste."

He pinched him. "Was that a compliment?" Another laugh, relaxed. He addressed him blindly. "Listen. You play it cool, we crash. Whatever you do, do not close your eyes. Okay?"

Walter nodded. "Okay."

Patrick revved the engine, felt the power of it. Then slipped the car into gear and took off. He did not take it slow. He knew the general layout of the lot, the obstacles to avoid. Beside him Walter twitched under his hand, cringing, leaning, teaching him the turns.

He straightened out of a curve and gunned it straight, his hand off the wheel. Walter yelped, just once, and Patrick slammed on the brakes. He ripped off the blindfold. A line of foliage separated them from the cliff's edge. He grinned.

Mashburn whooped beside him and got out of the car. Patrick followed. The spectators were clapping, coming toward them.

A rush of adrenaline carried him along. His usual stunts didn't carry this feeling, and he rarely chased it. But at this moment — still amped up from the art heist, then walking among the FBI agents without any hint of suspicion — he felt more alive than he had in years.

"Thank you. All in the wrist," he encouraged the praise.

It took a moment to realize that the faces of the crowd were changing. From awe to horror. He looked back just in time to see the car roll forward, closer and closer, among the bushes. It tipped, balancing precariously, the rear wheels spinning.

He knew as soon as he saw it rolling that this was going to end badly, but he still tried to catch it, Walter running next to him. They could hear the bottom scraping as it went over, then the horrible sounds of wrenching metal. They peered over the cliff. The car stood on end in the surf, ruined.

"Was that part of the trick, too?" Walter asked, surprisingly calm.

"I promise, it was a total accident," Patrick reached to get his bearings. "Well, uh… at least no one got hurt. It was a terrible color anyway." He punched Walter lightly on the arm. "I'll get you a new one."

Mashburn raised his eyebrows at him and they backed away from the edge. "Not for the main rotation then."

"Special occasions only."

Soon they were surrounded again, smiling and laughing, the story more important than the car.

At the restaurant, Lisbon stood on the back patio. As she looked through some fancy field glasses, Patrick Jane's smile filled her view.

X

"I watched him wreck a $200 thousand car just for the thrill of it," she marveled to Marcus.

"I know his type," he stated coldly. "He has more money than he knows what to do with. If he stole the painting, it wasn't for money."

"No," she agreed.

"You gonna talk to him at some point, or…?"

She put one hand on his arm. "Tomorrow. I wanted to talk to you about that. I'm going to have to come on strong. Challenge him. Almost like I'm undercover."

"You mean flirt with him?"

She grimaced. "Don't think he would buy that. But the normal procedures won't work. I will need to stretch some boundaries."

He looked at her thoughtfully. "As long as you know where the line is, Teresa. You don't want to blow a conviction."

She blew out a long breath, looked away. "What hotel do you recommend —"

"Hey, hey, whoa. Slow down there. Aren't you staying at my place?"

"Normally, yeah. It's not a fun weekend, anymore, Marcus. This is work."

"And what? I distract you?"

She squeezed his arm, went with it. "Yeah. A little. I mean, I'm going to have to lean on him a lot. Maybe stake outs, maybe crashing parties. Hours are going to be unpredictable. I don't want it to be weird."

"Teresa," he ducked his head to meet her eyes. "It's my case too. We're both going to be busy. Being able to see you in all the off-hours are what makes it worth it. I want you at my place."

She sighed. "I don't always know how to stop."

"I know what it's like," he reminded her. "You're my partner on this one. We'll do it together. Okay?"

They stared at each other for a long time before her lips quirked and she nodded, just barely. Pike took the win.


End file.
